The Malfoy family Healers didn't get owled in often, but they were always prompt whenever called. They were a male-female pair, perhaps lovers at a time in their history, and worked together. They were also old as hell. To be frank, Draco was always surprised to still see them working in the field as he had expected one of them to keel over at any moment. Regardless, he stood at a distance from his bed, his father also in the room, as he watched the Healers do their job.

Despite their age, their hands were steady and fluid. They worked in tandem, one Healer on either side of the bed, their wands trained on Hermione's head. They never once said a spell out loud which Draco considered highly impressive. And while he didn't recognize much of the wand movements that they performed, they still had base elements reminiscent of a Memory Charm. Draco felt his mouth twitch the longer he stared at them, and he took a moment to glance at this father who kept his focus straight ahead.

Draco had had his suspicions over Potter concerning the events on Sunday morning, but he wasn't a fool to go blazing with accusations. He also wasn't stupid enough to go asking the man directly as no one would ever admit to doing such a thing. Draco had decided then to use his stealth —risky, considering the treasure trove of witnesses that was the Ministry. It also helped very little that his department (International Diplomacy) worked very little with Aurors unless there was a crisis or an event, which meant that his presence in the department of Magical Law Enforcement would be seen as strange.

As luck would have had it, there was a diplomatic summit happening in a few months and Draco created a meeting, held not more than a couple of hours ago, for everyone who would be involved. Those included members of his own department, people from Muggle Relations, Marketing, Magical Security, and, of course, the Magical Law Enforcement. Draco hadn't planned on hosting this meeting for another three weeks, but it was opportune.

The most annoying thing that Draco had with Aurors was that their wands were, most often than not, kept in a holster. While it was convenient to easily whip a wand out that way, it also made it easy to have it taken if someone got too close. Draco didn't need to get that close, however. When the meeting was over, Draco was talking to one of his coworkers whose back had been turned to Potter as he also engaged in his own conversation. Potter's wand had been in Draco's eyesight, and with a subtle hand gesture and nonverbal magic, the wand gently freed itself from the holster and into Draco's hand before being tucked into the blond's back pocket that was hidden under his robes.

Eventually, Draco was the last one in the meeting room. While it wasn't illegal to check someone's wand for spells, it could be considered a breach of privacy. The spell typically used only gave information about its last spell, but Malfoys were a cunning lot. It wasn't unusual for them to have a variety spells that were modifications of others —like the one his father had used on Weasley. The one that Draco used on Potter's wand didn't only provide him the name of his last spell, but also provided a list of spells for any given day. Draco ran through Potter's spells for the Sunday that had just passed, but they were all innocuous. None of them could explain why Draco had felt the way he did upon waking in the afternoon. It had bothered him profusely, but his focused had shifted from that and to Hermione when he had seen her state.

And now his focused had shifted again.

"...be a little groggy when she wakes up," Healer Cimpo announced as he pocketed his wand, "but she will be fine."

"Thank you," Lucius nodded. "I will walk you out—"

"No, I'll do it," Draco spoke. He didn't miss the look his father gave him, but Draco ignored it as he escorted the Healers from his bedroom. He was taking them to the main parlor room on the bottom floor situated on the opposite side of the Manor. It was a hideously long journey, but made easy once there was company and conversation. Emphasis on conversation.

"May I ask what you did to Hermione exactly?"

"A technique called Mind Blocking," Healer Asteur explained. "It's a method to keep troubled thoughts from the conscious mind by creating a magical barrier."

"There are a lot of things that could make someone troubled," Draco said as looked from one Healer to the other. "How do you know what you're blocking?"

Healer Asteur and Healer Cimpo made eye contact briefly, as though mutually deciding whether to keep this next bit of information secret or not. Draco waited impatiently as they continued their walk and grew closer to the stairs.

"I'm a Legilimens," Healer Asteur admitted. "We both are. It comes in handy when treating the sick as we can find out what's wrong when the patient cannot say."

"I see. And when the patient is an Occlumens?"

They had reached the stairs. While Healer Asteur's gaze was towards the floor, Healer Cimpo was looking Draco dead in the face. The man may have been wrinkly all over and seemed as frail as an Azkaban prisoner on his death bed, but his eyes were a bright grey and seemed to be doing all the smiling that his mouth wasn't.

"Difficult," he answered, "but not impossible. When an Occlumens sleeps, his defenses are down, and it makes the walls that he has erected easier to move around. It's like watching the world through a fuzzy lens. You don't know exactly what you're looking at, but the longer you stare, the more patterns you see, and the more you recognize those patterns, the more you can fit them together like a puzzle. It's enough to get the job done. Wouldn't you agree?"

Draco held in his scoff. "Well, considering that my memory of Sunday morning is still shot after three days, I'd say that it does the job very well." He initiated the walk down the stairs, slowing down to keep watch on the old Healers and making sure they didn't take a misstep. Once they had reached the ground floor, his questioning resumed. "Do the barriers ever break?"

"They can," Healer Cimpo told him. "It varies, however, on when it could happen. For you? Your mind is used to walls —foreign or otherwise. I wouldn't expect them to break anytime soon. As for your fiancée...? Her madness could begin trickling back in two days, maybe three. Merlin forbid earlier."

"Hm. And what, Healer Cimpo, do you know of her madness?"

That knowing twinkle was in the Healer's eye again. It made Draco think of Dumbledore and the mysteriousness that he carried —a wealth of information that he only chose to reveal at the very last moment.

"We have been the Malfoy family Healers for quite some time," Healer Cimpo said, dodging the question, "and we are paid handsomely to keep the secrets of this family as such. Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy. Come, Healer Asteur."

They had made it to the parlor room and Draco watched as they both stepped into the fireplace, stated their destination, and were whisked away. He shouldn't have been surprised that they knew about his family's curse. He could only imagine just how many times someone had lost themselves and needed to be brought back to sanity. Draco wondered just what was it that he had seen or heard. How bad could it have been that his parents had to call in Healers to work complicated magic on an Occlumens such as himself? As bad as Hermione's experience? Whatever it was, he hoped to never remember or ever go through it again.

With a reluctant sigh, Draco realized that he would have to plot a murder.

It was possible for mental barriers to be created strong enough to last for a lifetime. This, of course, depended on the caster and the person they were created in. As Draco well knew, Occlumency could affect them, but there was also age, willpower, and memory jogging. It was the latter that had encouraged Draco not to tell Hermione in detail of what had happened to her on Wednesday, and also perhaps why his parents didn't tell him that it had happened to him as well. They needed to keep whatever hallucinations that had plagued them at bay, and he intended on doing just that. In the meantime, there were other matters to tend to.

"Your eyes are closed, right?" Hermione called from the dressing room. Draco could only chuckle as he sat on the edge of his bed. They were at the Manor, and aside from a master bathroom, his bedroom also included a dressing room and two on-call dressing elves.

"For the one hundredth time, yes, they're closed. Can you come out now before my eyes fuse shut?"

"Oh, alright, alright. No need to be cheeky."

Draco heard some rustling, and after a moment or two he heard Hermione telling him that it was okay to open his eyes now. He did, and he felt his voice catch in his throat. Although he had seen her in this dress already, he had been more focused on keeping her sane rather than what she had been wearing. He was glad now that he could finally appreciate it.

Now, Draco would never consider himself to be a fashion expert despite being particular in how he dressed. He had asked the women at Cara's for something red because he thought that it would complement Hermione's skin well. He had been right. It was an A-line fit with a daring, yet still modest V-neck that left most of her upper chest exposed as the top rest neatly on the edge of her shoulders. The bodice glittered in an intricate flower design from her shoulders and just pass her waist. The rest was of the dress flowed in a soft chiffon fabric down to the floor. To top it all off, a chiffon cape began at her shoulders and covered her along her arms and down to the floor with the rest of her dress and leaving a gentle trail. And although Hermione hadn't turned around, Draco knew that it was a scoop-backed dress, her back shielded by a clear, sheer material.

The dress made her look like a queen.

"Stunning," Draco said after a prolonged pause and rose to his feet. "You'll make every woman jealous."

Hermione felt herself grow red, although hopefully not as red as her dress, and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. The rest of her hair had been tended to by a style elf who had piled it neatly into a bun and clasped with a red and gold clip.

"That'll be convenient," Hermione scoffed. "Then they'll team up and poison me."

"That won't happen," Draco reassured. "We've gone over the details for tonight several times, and we have a solid plan."

"A lot of things could go wrong with that plan," she countered, but nevertheless, she took a deep breath. "Just keep your eyes on me."

Draco smiled and brought her hand to his lips. "Always. And our bet still stands?"

"It does."

"Then let's go."

Draco held out his arm for Hermione to take and she hooked her own with his. The party had already begun a forty-five minutes ago, but the couple of the hour couldn't just walk into the event. No, they had to announced —or so Narcissa said. It was bad enough that the most wicked people of the wizarding population knew that Hermione was going to marry Draco, but did they have to put their eyes on her the moment that she entered the room?

Regardless, a plan had been laid out for the evening to navigate the night with ease, and hopefully it went off without a hitch. In the meantime, Hermione and Draco made the trek from his bedroom, down the stairs, and down the left-hand corridor. They had to make yet another left and from there they could begin to hear the sounds of music in the air, tinkling champagne glasses, and chatter from the mouths of the devil's demons.

"Izzy," Draco called into the air, and the house elf apparated to his side with a bow. "Tell my parents that Hermione and I are ready to enter."

"Yes, Master Malfoy."

The house elf was gone with a soft pop! and Hermione took a deep breath as she tightened her hold on Draco's arm. It wasn't long before the noise beyond the ballroom's doors dwindled down to soft murmurs. Narcissa's voice was blunted yet still recognizable, and moments later a sliver of light appeared as the doors opened, followed by a blinding brightness that made Hermione squint. With her eyes reopened and Draco gently pulling her along, she was finally able to see the magnitude of what she was walking into —literally and metaphorically.

Draco had given her a basic rundown of who would be in attendance tonight, but even then, Hermione couldn't believe her eyes. There were people here that the Ministry had been looking for for years, casually in evening attire as though they were regular citizens. There were also others that had escaped custody and Death Eaters and suspected Death Eaters or supporters who had avoided Azkaban on a technicality or insufficient evidence.

Despite having Draco by her side, Hermione felt like everyone's eyes were solely focused on her. As for herself, her own gaze had become laser-focused on the mischievous grins, the heated glares, and the utter hatred. The night had barely begun, and already Hermione was regretting not putting her foot down harder and protesting this nonsense. She also regretted the lies that she was going to have to tell Harry after tonight. Naturally, she had told him what tonight entailed, and he had been completely up in arms about it. Regardless, she had promised to let him know how it went and to inform him of anyone on the MLE's wanted list. That list included a quarter of the people in this room, and despite the good that it would do, Hermione couldn't do it. It would directly implicate the family if she did, and while she cared nothing about if Lucius and Narcissa went to prison, she cared very deeply if Draco did —curse or not.

As Hermione and Draco walked through the crowd, bidding their hellos with gentle nods of acknowledgement, she realized that everyone was keener on just staring at her rather than speaking to her. That was perfectly fine. If such interactions could remain that way then the evening would be a success, but she knew that wouldn't be the case.

Guests aside, the ballroom really did look lovely. The room was bathed in gold walls with ceiling to floor windows every few feet. Beyond those windows was a terrace that Draco informed her could be entered from the double doors at on the other side of the ballroom. The ceiling housed enormous crystal chandeliers and the floors were a rose gold colored marble that reflected even better than a mirror. Along the walls where windows didn't cover were refreshment tables manned by butlers who served —what Hermione assumed —harder liquor than what was causally floating above people's heads.

"Draco, my boy!" exclaimed a man who could only be Draco's relative. He had Lucius' height, the blond hair, but blue eyes instead of grey. Standing alongside him was a slender woman, also with blond hair, and a tightly clasped smile. It was a wonder that her lips hadn't split.

"Uncle Damien," Draco addressed with a soft nod, "Aunt Lydia. The both of you look well."

"As do you," Damien smiled before turning his attention to Hermione. "You seem to have acclimated to our side of things well considering that you came to this event at all."

"Well, the event is for us," Hermione replied, forcing herself to return Damien's show of teeth. "I wasn't going to miss it just because I'm none of the guests' favorite person."

Damien laughed at that and even Lydia gave a small chuckle. "No, no, you certainly aren't. You are ours, however...yes?"

Hermione's brow furrowed at this statement-turned-question, but Draco seemed to catch on quickly and he jumped into the conversation with an affirmation. "Yes, she is."

"Splendid," he happily replied. "That says a lot about you, Miss Granger," he added, "and while there is blood status to consider, you are still in this for the 'deadly' long haul. You're one of us now."

"Welcome to the family, dear," Lydia said to Hermione. She even went so far as to take her hand and give her a gentle pat before walking off with her husband. The brunette was astounded, to say the least, and she looked at Draco questioningly.

"The curse?"

"The curse," he confirmed. "They may not like you, no, but you're entangled in the web that is our messy lives. Not to mention that you're going to be a —"

"—Malfoy," she finished. "Yes, I've grown accustomed to that ridiculous theme."

Draco smiled at her while simultaneously giving a small wave to a man Hermione knew the Ministry had been searching for for the past three years. "Ridiculous, yes, but at least it keeps you safe to a certain degree."

To a certain degree appeared to be right. Mingling was part of this horrid night, but as Hermione stayed latched onto Draco and they made their way around the ballroom, she did notice a pattern. While there were obvious expressions of disdain and indifference, not a single soul said anything unkind to her. They spoke to her as though they were distant acquaintances before turning their attention to Draco and continuing on with conversation. Beneath the facades of pleasantries, Hermione could see the throbbing veins, the overextended smiles, and the white-knuckled clenches of their champagne glasses. They were all desperately holding themselves back, and it was only now that Hermione understood just what the power of a name could hold and what a person's status in society could do. It was something to be respected (by most). Those who didn't had stayed towards one corner of the ballroom or promptly moved to another location if she got close. She and Draco kept a close eye on them for most of the evening.

Roughly two hours into the night, there were two rather eager guests who came to greet them and appeared to be less of the menacing sort. They had been in the same year as her, and the only thing that Hermione knew about them was that they had been in Slytherin and that while they weren't Death Eaters, their fathers were.

"Theo," Draco greeted and shook the man's hand. "Good to see you. Daph," he added to the woman beside him before gesturing to Hermione who still clung to his arm. "I'm not sure if the three of you have ever formally met. Hermione, this is Theo, and this is wife, Daphne."

"Pleasure," Theo smiled as he extended his hand to her. "I'm curious. What's your impression of the serpent's den so far?"

"It feels more like hell to me," Hermione snorted. Everyone laughed, Daphne the loudest as she picked up an hors d'oeuvre from a floating tray.

"That sounds about right," Daphne said as she took a bite out of her hors d'oeuvre. "Growing up around parties such as these doesn't erase the grime in the air from a select few. Our families have the worst taste in acquaintances —except for each other. Regardless, congratulations on your engagement, Ministry enforced or not. Have you set a wedding date yet?"

"We did, actually. Sunday, May 20th of next year."

"Oh, that's delightful! Much better than a sweltering hot mid-July wedding," Daphne added. "Not even a Cooling Charm could help. Right, Theo?"

Daphne turned to her left to find Theo heavy into a conversation with Draco. She shrugged, obviously used to them getting lost in chatter, and addressed Hermione. "Those two are going to be talking for a while, and I could use something stronger than what's being passed around on these trays. Follow me to the bar?"

Hermione felt her stomach turn. She had spent the better part of party by Draco's side, and although she was pretty sure that of all people Daphne wouldn't be the one to slip something toxic under her nose, it still unnerved her. She subtly glanced over the room and found Lucius and Narcissa who were speaking to someone who appeared to be family. Another uncle and aunt of Draco's, Hermione assumed. Then there was the special group that continued to stay out of her and Draco's way. They were nowhere near where the hard liquor drinks were being poured.

With an internal sigh, Hermione decided to put on her big girl cloak and go with it. Besides, it was nearly ten p.m., and things needed to move along before it got too late.

"Sure," Hermione agreed. "Draco," she tapped him on the shoulder, "sorry to bother you, but Daphne and I are headed for a drink."

Draco didn't respond right away. He merely checked the time on his watch before looking back at her and nodded. "Alright. Daph, while you can rival any man in the game of drink, please don't let my fiancée follow in your footsteps?"

"I'll make no such promise," Daphne grinned before bidding farewell to both him and her husband and linking her arm with Hermione's. They weaved their way through the crowd, some eyes lingering on them for longer than necessary, until they made it to one of the refreshment tables.

"Bourbon, please?" Daphne politely ordered. "An Ogden's would be lovely. Are you getting anything, Hermione?"

"I'll have a Martini."

"And a Martini," Daphne added. It wasn't long before a bourbon and a Martini were in her hands and she was passing the Martini over to Hermione. They were both quiet for a moment, silently sipping on their drinks (although, Daphne was almost chugging hers), as they watched everyone. "You know, out of all of the purebloods in our circles to get matched with, you got lucky."

Hermione didn't fully turn to face her, but she did eye Daphne from her periphery. "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so. You could've gotten someone like Marcus Flint."

Hermione followed where Daphne gestured with her glass, and there she found him. Marcus Flint. Despite it sounding incredibly shallow, he didn't appear to look as polished as most of the guests. She imagined that that was what Daphne was referring too, but she decided to humor the blonde anyway.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Pure in blood, yes, but awful etiquette, decorum, everything."

"Wouldn't that go for any pureblood that's not in your circles?"

"Our circles," Daphne corrected. "And technically speaking, yes. In fact, Weasley comes to mind —no offense."

"None taken."

"Even then there are differences between him and Marcus. Personality can make up for the fact that you walk like a troll or have the inability to properly hold a wine glass. Had Marcus been your suitor I would have shed a tear for your future. Loveless and a level of indifference to make you feel unwanted."

Daphne missed the way Hermione had suddenly given her all of her attention. The brunette glanced between her and Marcus, truly wondering if what she had said had stemmed from personal experience or hearsay. Hermione didn't ask, of course, and instead listened as Daphne spoke again.

"So, I repeat: you got lucky. Yes, you and Draco have a horrid past, but he'll always be there for you. If not out of true feelings, then simply because it's his duty as your husband. Nothing comes before family. Like Theo, he's been raised to honor that, and he will."

"Thank you for saying that," Hermione genuinely smiled. Daphne returned it and clinked their glasses.

"Of course. Draco's our friend, and now so are you. You're not alone in this, don't worry."

It was utterly amazing how easy Daphne offered her friendship when Hermione's own friends were calling her mad. It was why she had only told Harry about tonight. Ron was still miffed with her, and if he was upset, so was the remainder of the Weasleys. One of them was bound to break the wall of tension eventually, but it wasn't going to be her. Quite frankly, and perhaps cowardly, she hoped that Harry would be the ice breaker among them all.

Hermione and Daphne spent the next twenty minutes standing, talking, and drinking —Hermione with her single Martini, and Daphne quickly knocking back her second bourbon and turning to the server for an Old Fashioned. By the time it hit ten-thirty, Hermione set her glass down, told Daphne that she was going to head the restroom, and asked her to let Draco know where she had gone.

The party had begun to dwindle by now, and instead of pushing pass a sea of people, Hermione was gently gliding through the empty spaces of partygoers. There was a small, brightly lit hall to the far right from where she and Draco had entered that was meant for guests to use if they wanted to freshen themselves up. Aside from the restrooms, there were a few parlor rooms down this way and access to a private balcony. It was, truly, a lovely hall.

Hermione stood in the archway to the hall for a moment, her eyes scanning the thinning crowd. She caught sight of the motley crew that held the undesirables —those guests one had to invite, but no one really wanted to show up. Of those still there was Rabastan Lestrange. She had seen him all evening, and it made her skin crawl every time they had accidentally made eye contact. The last she had seen him face to face it had been in battle. If she was to be honest, he looked better back then than he did now. Years of running would do that to you.

Hermione turned on her heel when she felt Rabastan's eyes on her and headed to the restroom like she had originally planned. It was empty, and she was out of there within a few minutes. When she stepped back into the hall, however, she instantly realized that something was wrong.

The lights were out.

The hall that had been as radiant as the ballroom was suddenly shrouded in darkness, and the only light that remained was coming from the ballroom at the hall's opening. Hermione took a deep breath, slowly looking to her left and right as she bent forward to hike up her dress. She had stuck her wand in a holster on her thigh in case she needed it, and right now sure seemed like the right time. Her dress had been pulled up to her knee when she heard footsteps coming, and her hand had reached the handle of her wand when she felt another position itself on her neck to the left of her.

"You blend into the dark well," Hermione swallowed as she let go of her dress and let it fall to the floor. Her stalker laughed, and somehow she could tell that he was smiling.

"Shall we head into the parlor room, Miss Granger?" he asked politely. He also didn't wait for a reply. Hermione felt his hand grab ahold of her upper arm and lead her away from the rest of the masses. Obviously, this person was familiar with the home, and so perhaps it wasn't the Death Eater who had been eying her all night. A family member maybe? So much for the safety that being a Malfoy ensured.

Hermione was ushered into the nearest parlor room which was dimly lit. Under any other circumstances, she would have appreciated how well it was decorated. Red walls with gold trims, plush armchairs and loveseats around a coffee table, walls lined with books, and a large working desk with a desk chair suited for a king behind it. The room also held a fireplace that was currently unlit.

The rest of the light, however, illuminated her captor's face, and no, it wasn't family.

"Rodolphus," she said as she looked over him.

Rodolphus Lestrange was not his brother. Whereas Rabastan was unkempt and akin to Marcus Flint in a way, Rodolphus was every definition of a proper pureblood. He wore an expensive set of dress robes that didn't have a wrinkle in sight, his shoes shined just as beautifully as the ballroom's floors, and not a single strand of hair was out of place. If Hermione wasn't aware of the evil that this man could do, she would have been lulled into a false sense of security. It was the smile that did it. White teeth, a hint of mischief, but overall charming. Even his laugh had its own pull —the sound of silk, it if it had one.

"I would like to have a word with you, if you don't mind."

"A word?" Hermione repeated. "You needed to train your wand on me for that?"

"Would you have come with me otherwise?"

"Absolutely not."

"You have your answer then. Sit, please."

Rodolohus sat on an armchair as he gestured to the other across from him. This was entirely unexpected, but Hermione complied regardless and sat down, her dress draping onto the floor to one side of her. His eyes followed her as she did so, and she did her best not to squirm under his gaze. It wasn't as horrid as it should have been —his stare. With a hand on his chin, his forefinger sliding across his mouth, he appeared to be appraising her form.

"Surprising, you have grace for someone of your…status."

"Am I suppose to say thank you?"

"It would be polite."

"You pulled a wand on me," Hermione said irately. "Forgive me if I'm not in the mood to show gratitude.'"

Rodolphus gave the most perfect shrug as he replied with an airy, "Very well," and crossed his ankle over his knee. "I take it that you understand that you are marrying into a very dangerous world?"

Hermione nodded. "I do."

"And I trust that you also understand that the majority of the guests tonight have plotted your death twice over?"

"Including you?" Hermione dared to ask. Rodolphus was smiling again. It even reached his eyes —eyes that she could now see were a dazzling blue.

"Why, Miss Granger, you offend me," he replied as he leaned further back onto his seat. "I know better than to bite the hand of the one who feeds me."

That sobered Hermione instantly, and while she fought the rise of her brows, she, too, leaned back, and crossed her legs at the knees.

"Tell me, what exactly am I feeding you?"

"Well, it's more of a quid pro quo, if you will. On your end, loyalty, and on my end, protection."

Hermione nearly choked on air. Instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat and questioned him.

"Why on earth should either of those two things happen? I owe you nothing, and I certainly wouldn't trust my life in your hands. I'd trust Lucius before I'd trust you."

"Oh, but Lucius doesn't get his hands as dirty as he used to," Rodolphus countered. "He doesn't have his ears to the streets —I do. Whereas he would find out a plot about you the day before, I would have known it a week in advance. Being a fugitive has its advantages compared to an upstanding citizen," he added with a cocky pop of his collar.

Hermione rolled eyes at him —an action he clearly detested by the instant pursing of his lips. It probably wasn't ladylike.

"And you would do this in exchange for my loyalty? In what form would that look like exactly?"

"As I've said, I'm a fugitive. The Ministry has raided two of my homes in the last year. You work there and you're friends with Potter. It doesn't matter how you do it, but I need Aurors off of my trail."

Hermione had heard Rodolphus, yes, but she still hadn't believed him. The room had clouded itself in a layer of quiet as the man watched her and as she retreated into her thoughts. It wasn't long before the clearing of his throat brought her back. When she finally acknowledged him, she had fully succumbed to the hilarity of it all.

"Unbelievable," Hermione breathed. "After years of hating me, you need me. You actually need me."

"'Need' is a bit strong," Rodolphus sniffed. "You are…an accessory."

"You need me," she repeated firmly. "Don't pretend that this is a casual favor that you're asking for. Your offer of 'protection' is a weak bait, because while I can protect myself, Draco would never let anything happen to me. You need me far more than I, supposedly, need you, because without me Aurors won't stop. So," Hermione smiled as she cupped her hands over her knee, "how does it feel to be at the mercy of a muggleborn?"

"Bite your tongue," Rodolphus hissed. "You are nothing more than a means to an end."

"What end?" Hermione goaded. "Unless I die, I'm not going anywhere." She saw his face morph into a hideous scowl, and it gave her such a thrill to see how much she annoyed him. The throbbing veins she had seen in various guests tonight had now manifested in the man before her, and she felt the urge to laugh. It was light flutter, but a sinister one. It rang an eerie bell, but she didn't concentrate on it, and instead rose to her feet.

"You won't be the last," she said as she casually strode towards him. "Others will come to see the benefit of staying on my good side. A muggleborn's good side. Their very livelihoods rests with me —hell, I could tell Harry tonight just who I saw so he can make his arrests." Hermione was standing directly in front of Rodolphus now, still sitting on the armchair, but absolutely seething with rage. She looked down at him with the sweetest grin, and interlaced her fingers. "The tables have certainly turned, and I must tell you that it gives me great pleasure to know that a Death Eater such as yourself was the first."

"You know, Miss Granger," he said slowly as finally stood, those extra six inches he had in height causing him to tower over her. "I think that you have forgotten that no one knows the two of us are here. What I suggested was a mere offer. I don't need you, as you suggest." Rodolphus suddenly pulled out his wand with a speed that defied his age and jammed it into her throat. "So, tell me, how is Draco going to protect you from me, hmm?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

Rodolphus tilted his head slightly, but he followed the witch's eyes as she looked just pass him. He turned around to find the very blond he had asked about with a small statue of Merlin in his hands.

"Hello, Uncle."

The statue collided with Rodolphus' head and he immediately fell to the ground. Hermione looked on, unfazed, as Draco walked around the armchair and stood over his uncle who was having trouble getting to his feet. With each movement he made —a hand on the neighboring couch, an attempt to crawl backwards but slipping —was a labored effort in vain.

"It's not nice to threaten people," Draco said calmly as he bent over Rodolphus and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "It's even worse when you train a wand on them." Draco roughly let him go and with two hands on the base of the statue brought it down onto Rodolphus' head. This time, the older man didn't move. He did sputter, however, as blood splashed from his mouth to accompany the trickles from his left temple. Draco hit him again, this time no more sputter, and no more movement at all, but that didn't stop him from crashing the statue onto Rodolphus a fourth time, and soon a fifth, as Hermione leisurely sat on the couch and watched the scene with her head and arms leaning along the couch's backrest.

"I think he's dead," Hermione said before Draco landed a sixth blow. He looked over at her with the statue held over his own head, ready to bring it down, his chest heaving from the exertion. Blood had splattered him. It had ruined the white of his shirt, stained his neck, and droplets had decorated his cheeks.

Draco dropped the statue and got up from the floor. He was looking over his handiwork when Hermione spoke again.

"You lost the bet. Out of everyone to come after me, it was Rodolphus. He wasn't even trying to kill me —until I provoked him, that is."

"I must admit that I am surprised," Draco mused. "You goaded him beautifully by the way. I think he would have actually done it."

"Which justifies you killing him," Hermione added. "Although, I should probably paint the picture better. Care to help?"

"Gladly."

Draco scanned the floor for Rodolphus' wand and picked it up with the hem of his dress robes. Hermione was already on her feet, and with careful movements of the wand, her dressed was ripped near the hip. He placed the wand back where he had found it, and with his own hands Draco roughly pulled at the shoulders of Hermione's dress. She undid the clasp that held her hair together and tossed it on the floor near the coffee table where Rodolphus' wand was and ruffled her hair. Together, Hermione and Draco adjusted the armchair that Rodolphus had been siting in to make it look like it had been pushed back during a struggle.

They gave one final look around the room before turning to each other, and, without meaning to, they paused. This image was reversed. Instead of Hermione being covered in blood, it was Draco. The internal switch of yearning had never turned off the night Hermione had killed that vagabond, but a new murder had fueled what had been ignited. It didn't help that Hermione was currently disheveled, and Draco could see it all playing out in his head. One good hike of her dress and pass her thighs and it would be just like their first time: passionate and uninhibited. He knew that she could see it too, and it made his cock twitch with excitement as she drew her lip between her teeth, one of her hands tracing a finger across the mounds of her breasts.

Unfortunately, they needed to focus.

"I'm going to call for help," Draco pushed himself to say. "Make the tears good."

Hermione nodded and reached up to plant a kiss on his forehead before urging him to go. "Of course."

Author's note: This chapter answered some questions, but I'm sure it raised a few more lol. I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

-WP